Pulgar

The church bells strike noon, but nobody checks their watch. In Pulgar's main square, the only queue forms at the bakery where Doña Maria still wraps olive bread in yesterday's newspaper. This is how afternoons begin in the Montes de Toledo, 720 metres above sea-level, where red earth meets holm oak forests and the modern world feels like a distant rumour.

The Architecture of Everyday Life

Pulgar's parish church dominates the modest skyline, though calling it a skyline stretches the definition. The building's squat tower rises reluctantly from a jumble of whitewashed houses, their terracotta roofs the colour of the surrounding soil. Construction began sometime in the sixteenth century, paused, restarted, and evolved according to whatever materials and money circulated through this agricultural settlement. The result pleases more than it impresses: a working church for working people, its thick walls designed to keep worshippers cool during August services when temperatures regularly exceed 35°C.

Wandering the streets reveals the practical beauty of rural Castilian architecture. Single-storey houses lean companionably against their two-storey neighbours, sharing walls and gossip in equal measure. Traditional wooden gates—massive affairs that require considerable shoulder pressure—guard interior courtyards where families once kept chickens and now park dusty Seat Ibizas. The lime wash covering most façades requires annual attention; neglect it for two summers and the sun peels it away like old paint on a boat.

Visitors expecting postcard perfection should adjust expectations. Pulgar functions as a real village should: the petrol station doubles as the bus stop, the pharmacy sells everything from antibiotics to garden hose attachments, and closing times remain negotiable depending on whether someone's cousin is visiting from Toledo.

Between Earth and Sky

The Montes de Toledo stretch south and west, a rolling landscape of dehesas where black Iberian pigs root beneath oak trees that have witnessed three centuries of village life. These managed woodlands produce the acorns that flavour the region's famous jamón, though walking through them requires sensible footwear and a tolerance for mud that varies from irritating to boot-swallowing depending on recent rainfall.

Early morning walks reward the determined. Setting out at sunrise, following any of the unsigned tracks leading from the village's southern edge, walkers might spot griffon vultures circling overhead or hear the distinctive call of hoopoes from olive groves below. The land drops away sharply towards the Tagus River valley, creating viewpoints where the curvature of the earth becomes visible on clear days. Spring brings wild asparagus thrusting through red soil; autumn delivers mushrooms that locals guard with the same territorial intensity normally reserved for family recipes.

Serious hikers should note the lack of marked trails. The tourist office—open Tuesday through Thursday, mornings only—provides photocopied maps that bear only passing resemblance to actual topography. Better to ask at Bar Central, where Paco can explain which routes remain passable after rain and which farmers object to strangers crossing their land. His directions typically involve "follow the dry stone wall until you see the abandoned threshing circle, then head towards the electricity pylon."

Food Without Fanfare

Lunch arrives at 3 pm or not at all. The village's two restaurants operate on schedules that puzzle outsiders but make perfect sense to people who rise with the sun and work until the heat becomes unbearable. Both serve identical menus because both buy ingredients from the same suppliers and employ cooks who learned their trade from mothers who considered innovation a character flaw.

Order the migas, breadcrumbs fried in olive oil with garlic and scraps of chorizo, a dish that fed field workers for generations and now appears on trendy Madrid menus at ten times the price. The partridge stew arrives swimming in oil the colour of liquid gold—locally pressed, naturally—from groves that surround the village like devoted pilgrims. During hunting season, which runs October through February, wild boar appears in stews dense enough to stop bullets. Vegetarians face limited options, though the local cheese—semi-cured goat's milk with a rind washed in red wine—compensates for the absence of green vegetables.

The bakery produces olive oil biscuits that crumble at first bite, leaving fingers dusted with sugar and aniseed. Buy them early; by 11 am only the plain varieties remain, purchased by grandmothers who arrive precisely at opening time and buy by the kilo.

When the Village Remembers It's Spanish

Mid-August transforms Pulgar completely. The fiesta honouring the Virgen de la Antigua brings home children who fled to Madrid and Barcelona, their cars clogging streets designed for donkeys. The population triples overnight. Suddenly every house contains cousins sleeping on sofas, the square hosts outdoor cinema screenings of films released two years previously, and the single cash machine empties within hours of being refilled.

Processions wind through streets too narrow for the purpose, carrying the Virgin's statue while brass bands play marches that echo off stone walls until 4 am. Fireworks—technically illegal but enthusiastically deployed—frighten dogs and delight children. The bakery stays open continuously, employing every family member capable of kneading dough. By August 20th, silence returns so abruptly that birds seem shocked into silence.

January's San Antón celebration provides winter relief. Locals build massive bonfires in the square, roasting potatoes in the embers while blessing their pets alongside tractors and the occasional prize-winning hunting dog. The priest, wrapped in a coat that predates Vatican II, sprinkles holy water over mongrels, Mercedes vans, and one confused sheep wearing a bow.

Getting There, Getting By

Toledo lies 50 kilometres north along the CM-4000, a road that starts as dual carriageway and gradually narrows until meeting oncoming traffic requires breath-holding and good luck. The journey takes 45 minutes unless stuck behind an olive truck, in which case add twenty minutes of crawling along at agricultural speeds. Public transport exists in theory—a bus departs Toledo at 2 pm, returning at 7 am the following day—but renting a car proves essential for exploring the surrounding countryside.

Accommodation options remain limited. One casa rural occupies a restored village house, its thick walls and small windows keeping rooms cool during summer heatwaves. Book well ahead for August; during fiesta, even the mayor's cousin sleeps in the garage. Alternative options exist in neighbouring villages, though "neighbouring" requires a twenty-minute drive along roads where GPS signals vanish at crucial moments.

Pack walking boots with proper ankle support—the rough tracks eat trainers for breakfast. Bring layers: mountain weather shifts rapidly, and that pleasant morning stroll becomes a teeth-chattering adventure when clouds roll in. The village shop stocks basics but closes between 2 pm and 5 pm because siestas remain non-negotiable.

Pulgar offers no monuments to tick off, no Instagram moments unless photographing elderly men playing dominoes counts. Instead, it provides something increasingly rare: a place where Spanish village life continues regardless of tourism, where the bakery knows every customer's name, and where the mountain air smells of thyme and history in equal measure. Come for that, or don't come at all.